The Feathered Nest

The summer I graduated college was a crazy and amazing time. I just finished student teaching and was preparing for my  late July wedding. Case and I had our first apartment together, a wonderful spot in an old gristmill in Ashland, NH. Several friends had also relocated one exit south of our little college town. We developed a habit of meeting several times a week at The Common Man in Ashland. If you’ve never been there it is truly a great bar. It is cozy and welcoming. Lots of warm wood, plush seating areas, and irreverent antiques. That year, we claimed an area of the bar, dubbed “The Berries” because of a large vintage sign that hung on the wall, as our own.

Beginning a career, and for Case and I a marriage, can be overwhelming and scary. We were so lucky to have friends to share that adventure with and a local establishment that treated a motley band of recent college  grads as revered customers.

We’ve all gone off in different directions now, but I know we all look back at this time with deep nostalgia. Our friend Colleen was often the ring leader of these outings. She was and is one of the warmest and most fun-loving people I know. This poem is  a thank you for sponsoring me in the 826 Valencia fundraising event. Thanks, Coll.

The Berries

for Colleen Marshall

by Sandee Bisson

Sun slips out of sight

papers are tossed on hand-me-down tables

pinching “grown up” shoes tossed aside

slip into worn denim and LL Bean boots

clomp on down the street

through the door, up the spiral staircase.

Familiar faces await

drinks appear, no need to order

the days adventures recounted

triumphs and worries

the exhaustion of creating a career, making a life

rents, loans, bills, relationships, marriages

new responsibilities, bewildering and complex,

become manageable

when paired with a white chocolate martinis,

shared veggie burgers,

crispy fries,

and laughter.

One of my favorite places in the world is the back porch of our friends Joe and Wendy’s barn. This is not just because the structure and the views are spectacular, they are, but because of the wonderful memories and traditions we have built with these two special people. I wanted to try to capture a bit of that in this poem. Thanks for the support Joe and Wen.

I did a fine job of butchering the meter of the sonnet. So I am calling it a so-so-nnet. What it lacks in skill, I hope it makes up for in sentiment.

The Barn

(For Joe and Wen)

by Sandee Bisson

Gracious porch welcomes with a smile.

Creaking glider and time worn chairs

beg you to stop and sit awhile;

take a break from worries and cares.

Snug in a valley, nestled by hills.

Talk is easy, practiced patter;

politics, books, and gossip spills

from mouths of friends, comfortable chatter.

Minutes pass quickly, hours go by.

Curl up in a cozy sweater,

daylight fades, pink clouds paint the sky.

Laugh as you place a Scrabble letter.

Together through life’s twists and bends,

Precious moments shared with dear friends.

I received a generous pledge today from dear family friends, Mona and Bill Oullette. Corey and I grew up with their kids and Dyer kids in Maine and they are truly like family to us.

This poem is an attempt to show how special the bond is that our three families share.

Bonds Beyond Blood

(For Bill and Mona Oullette)

by Sandee Bisson

Initial meeting

something clicks

a friendship is formed.

Spouses meet.

New connections.

Meals and dreams are shared.

Children grow together.

Friendships flower into the next generation.

Physical distance grows.

Traditions are established.

Space is bridged

with time and effort.

Children grow and leave home.

Each new milestone celebrated.

Nests empty.

Years of hard work

begin to pay off.

Retirement hovers on the horizon.

A new freedom is gained.

Travels planned together.

New adventures sweetened by age.

Time together is easy

years woven together

forming a comforting warmth.

Bonds beyond blood.

Friends like family.

My efforts to make San Francisco feel like home continue. Getting involved with the community seems like a good way to move that process along. I had already signed up to volunteer with 826 Valencia when the lovely Heidi Dolamore asked for folks to join her intrepid team of librarians to compete in A Spelling Bee for Cheaters, 826 Valencia’s fundraising event.

I am trying to raise $500 and I have embarked on a personal, social-media fundraising drive. As a loyal NPR listener, I know all good fundraising drives need incentive gifts. I have promised to create a line of original poetry for each dollar pledged. Three bucks get you a haiku, five bucks a tanka, fourteen a sonnet, or any free-verse variant betwixt or beyond. If you’d like to to make a donation of any amount, you can do so here.

I am challenging myself to get these back to the contributor within 24 hours. I can’t promise genius, but I can promise a bit of fun. I will send you a copy of your poem and post it here on my blog with an intro.

My parents, the amazing Norm and Donna Blanchette, gave me a very generous $25 pledge yesterday. So they get the dubious honor of the first poem. I would not be who I am without them and that was the thought I had as I began writing their poem. However, the poem, after being processed through my twisted little brain, did not end up exactly where I had intended. That said, it is crafted with a great deal of love.

Untitled
(For my Parents)
by Sandee Bisson

Am I a recipe?
A plan laid out
precise, measured.
A teaspoon of this,
a cup of that.
Blended and baked.

Am I a book?
A story slowing unfolding
page by page.
A work of nuance
peppered with playful alliteration.

Am I a garden?
Delicate blossoms and hardy stems
roots going down, down deep.
At the the whim of sun and rain.
Requiring care and a nurturing hand.

Am I a song?
Notations on a page
quarter notes, rests, crescendos, and trills.
A map to be interpreted by each musician
played straight or improvised.
Crossing genres.
Always changing and evolving.

In the end
the recipe is devoured,
the book, inevitably, is resolved,
the garden is harvested
then sits dormant for the winter.

The song is hummed in the schoolyard.